Rhyan
The doorbell rang right on time. Chauncey glanced at me once before heading to answer it. A few seconds later, the chef stepped in—calm and professional, already moving as if she belonged in our space. Even so, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something about all of this was too polished.
I stayed upstairs for a minute, letting the quiet settle in my chest. Then I went downstairs.
By the time I reached the kitchen, everything was already in motion.
The chef moved with intention—seasoning, flipping, plating—no wasted motion. The kitchen is filled with the scent of honey-bourbon glaze over salmon, buttery sautéed shrimp, steamed broccoli, loaded mashed potatoes, and warm rolls under a cloth.
It felt deliberate. This wasn’t just dinner. It was a gesture.
Chauncey moved differently too—quieter, more focused. He disappeared for a moment, then came back from the cellar with a few bottles of wine, setting them on ice like he’d been thinking about this all along. The way he handled it made me wonder what else he’d already decided.
“For you,” he said, nodding toward them. “Pick what you want.”
I glanced at the bottles, then at him. Part of me wanted to trust it, and part of me still didn’t.
He wasn’t hovering. He wasn’t rushing me. But that only made the silence feel heavier. Just… there.
The chef finished plating everything and carried it to the dining table, arranging it like something out of a magazine—clean lines, soft lighting, everything placed with care. Even the strawberry cake sat off to the side, simple yet perfect.
I slowly stepped into the dining area, taking it all in as the room settled around me. For a second, it didn’t feel like tension lived here at all.
It just felt like us—Before everything got complicated. Chauncey pulled out my chair. I hesitated—just for a second—before sitting.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
He nodded, then took his seat across from me.
No rush.
No pressure.
Just dinner. And the space to figure out what we were rebuilding. Dinner was… amazing. Candles flickered low across the table, softening the scene. The private chef had outdone herself—every plate looked like it belonged somewhere far from here, somewhere we didn’t have problems to fix.
The honey-bourbon glaze melted over the salmon, rich and sweet. The shrimp was seasoned just right, the broccoli remained crisp, and the mashed potatoes were smooth and indulgent. Even the rolls—warm and buttery—felt like comfort.
And the wine…
Perfect.
Everything about this felt intentional and well thought out, like Chauncey had taken his time to put it together, and that made it feel like more than dinner.
I glanced around the dining room for a moment, then looked back down at my plate, letting the scene settle in. I could get used to this—if it really meant we were moving forward.
We ate in silence for the most part—not awkward, not heavy… just quiet. The kind of quiet that lets you breathe. Every now and then, our eyes would meet, then drift away again, as if neither of us wanted to say too much too soon.
For once… it didn’t feel like we were forcing anything. I finally looked up from my plate—and there he was. Watching me. Not saying anything. Just… taking me in. I swallowed softly and set my fork down.
“Thank you for this.”
His expression barely changed, but I felt it anyway. “Anything for you.”
“I could get used to this.”
His eyes stayed on me, steady. “I want you to.”
I glanced around the table, then back at him. “I think more nights like this are needed.”
A small smile tugged at his lips. “That can definitely be arranged.”
I tilted my head, studying him. “Is this the real you?”
He didn’t answer right away. “I want it to be,” he said finally. “I want to do shit like this… with you.”
I let that sit.“I hope you ain’t doing shit like this for nobody else.”
He laughed under his breath. I didn’t laugh. I gave him a look.
He lifted his hands quickly. “Aiight, aiight… I’m not.”
His tone turned serious.
“You’re the only one getting this side of me.” I held his gaze, unsure but not pulling away.
“Make sure it stays that way.”
I still didn’t fully trust him. Not yet. But I was willing to meet him halfway. Just not at the cost of losing myself again. I set my glass down, steady.
“I’m not doing infidelity this time around, Chauncey. Not even a little bit.”
He didn’t argue. Didn’t deflect. He came to sit beside me, close enough that I felt the shift before he spoke.
“I can’t change the past, Rhy,” he said quietly. “I wish I could… but I can’t.”
I kept my eyes on him.
“I fucked up—more than once—when it came to us. I ain’t proud of none of that shit.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “And I hate that this”—he glanced around the table— “feels foreign to you. It shouldn’t.”
That landed. He looked back at me, steady. “You are the only woman I want to be with. I’m serious about that.”
I searched for him for the old version. “I’m not asking you to forget,” he added. “I’m asking for the chance to show you something different.”
I held his gaze a second longer. “Then don’t make me regret sitting here with you.”
“I won’t take you for granted.”
I nodded, still holding his gaze. Chauncey stood, reached for my hand, and pulled me up. He drew me into him, arms around my waist, grounding me there.
Our eyes locked. He leaned in and rested his forehead against mine.
“I love you, Rhy,” he said softly. “I’mma get it right this time.”
He pressed a kiss to my forehead—gentle, intentional—then let me go. I felt it linger after he stepped back.
“I’mma start putting some of this stuff away,” he added.
“I love you too, Chauncey,” I said, steady. “And I want you to get it right… for what it’s worth.”
He nodded, and I knew he understood. No extra words. Just effort.
We moved around the kitchen together, quietly putting things away—passing dishes back and forth, brushing past each other every now and then.
Shit wasn’t perfect between us, but it felt right.
For now.
We finished in the kitchen, moving around each other like we were relearning the rhythm. No rush, no tension—just us. I grabbed one more piece of that strawberry cake before heading upstairs.
Yeah, I wasn’t leaving.
When I walked into our room, Chauncey was already stretched out in bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the TV low—some basketball game playing in the background. He glanced over as soon as I stepped in, that same look in his eyes, then motioned for me to come join him.
I didn’t hesitate. I climbed into the bed, sliding under the covers beside him—but he wasn’t having that. Before I could even get settled, he pulled me up, positioning me right on top of him.
I let out a small laugh, but I didn’t fight it. I wanted this.
Wanted him.
I shifted slightly, getting comfortable, my hands resting against his chest as his arms wrapped around me like he’d been waiting to do it all day.
His touch moved slowly—nothing rushed, nothing greedy—just enough to remind me he was there.
Everywhere.
I exhaled softly, letting myself sink into him. His lips brushed against my ear, his voice low.
“Thank you… for choosing to stay while we figure this out.”
That did something to me.
I lifted my head slightly, looking down at him. “I’m not promising this is going to be easy,” I said quietly, “but I’m willing to try.”
“I know,” he answered without hesitation.
“And I’m still watching you.”
A small smirk pulled at his lips.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
I rested my head back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat steady beneath me.
For once… I wasn’t trying to run. I wanted whatever the night had to offer. The wine had finally settled in my system—warm, loosening my thoughts just enough to make me bold… but not careless. Enough to let me trust the moment a little more.
I wasn’t about to make the first move. But I wasn’t innocent either. I lifted myself off Chauncey’s chest, sitting up slowly. His eyes followed me—no shame, no hesitation.
Yeah… he was watching. I slid out of my clothes, piece by piece, not rushing it.
I tossed my panties in his face. I wanted him to smell it.
I let him see just enough before I pulled the covers back and slipped underneath them again, settling beside him like I hadn’t just done all that. I was letting him in.
I turned onto my side, trying to play it cool. Like I wasn’t setting the tone. But Chauncey wasn’t going for that. He pulled me right back on top of him—no warning, no hesitation—like he wasn’t about to let me play games without answering.
My breath hitched. His hands moved slowly this time… controlled. Not rushing. Not taking. Just… feeling.
Learning me again.
“Aye…” he murmured against my ear, voice low. “I’m trying to be on my best behavior… but you’re testing me right now. I know you feel how hard this pipe is between my legs. Sit on it.”
I let out a quiet breath, steadying myself.
“I’m not doing nothing,” I said, softer than I intended. “I was lying beside you. You did this.”
A small smirk tugged at his lips.
“I did,” he admitted. “I want you close.”
“Beside you is close.”
“Nah…” he shook his head slightly. “This closer.”
That landed.
“Sit on my face, Rhy. Can I taste it?”
Silence.
We stayed like that for a second—too close, too aware, neither of us moving.
“You scared?” he asked, voice quieter now.
I lifted my head, meeting his eyes. “No,” I said. “I just know where this leads.”
“And that’s a problem?”
I held his gaze, not backing down. “It is… if we move too fast and mess up what we just started fixing.”
Something shifted in him. His hands slowed, not pulling away… just respecting it.
“For once,” he said low, “I ain’t trying to mess this up.”
I rested my forehead against his, closing my eyes for a second.
“Good,” I whispered.
“Because neither am I.”
I didn’t move. Neither did he.
We stayed there—foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air, both of us knowing exactly where this was going… even after everything we said.
“I should get up,” I whispered.
But I didn’t.